


Need

by chains_archivist



Series: Need by Tritorella [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: BDSM, Boys in Chains, M/M, Sex, Sounding, no rock and roll, violence (consensual)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Tritorella</p><p>An exploration by a middle-aged vanilla het woman of the BDSM lifestyle of two gay Immortals. It's very realistic. Honest. <br/>Warnings: Kinda BDSM, kinda not (don't ask me to explain this!). Sex, violence (consensual), no rock and roll. An OMC, but he's harmless. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).  
> \--  
> Sincere thanks to Mary Ellen for advice, and to Maureen Lycaon for beta duties and hand-holding.   
> Rating - NC-17  
> Disclaimer - No copyright infringment intended  
> Please note - a sound is the technical name for the object in question. And do I have to say, don't try this at unless you too are an Immortal?

It is no surprise to find him by the fireplace at three in the morning. I've been expecting it -- the nightmares, the moods, the lack of concentration over the past month are all signs that things are bad again for him. Of course we have tried sex, and his own unique meditations, but they only slow the inevitable.

I go to him, carrying the comforter, and wrap it around him. When he is not shivering so much, I say quietly, "It's time to go."

We talked about this two weeks ago, but he insisted he could manage. He always does -- until once again I find him as I have tonight. The horrors that plague his dreams take a lot out of him -- in some ways I prefer the ones that rip him out of sleep with a scream. At least I know he is suffering and can try to help. The ones which wake him rigid with terror, his heart and mind feel as cold as glacier ice, propel him from our bed in a fruitless attempt to deal with it on his own. All it that achieves is to leave him feeling vulnerable, afraid and alone. I hate that he can feel that way with me just a few feet away.

He gives in, finally, nodding. "All right, " he says shakily. "We'll leave today."

His eyelids lower a little as he relaxes, knowing relief will come soon, and slowly he slumps a little more, the trembling easing. It will be some time before he can sleep, and it will not be for long, but I can hold him until then, stroking his soft dark hair. We can hold on that little bit longer.

Later that morning, I call in sick for both of us to the University, not caring much if they believe me or not. Then I call Eric.

"Eric, it's Duncan."

I can hear him smiling through his deep, chocolate-coated voice. "Ah, child. You know I was just thinking of the two of you. It's been, what, nearly a year since you came up. How are you both?"

"Not so good. Methos is wound tighter than a steel band. Can we come up?"

"Of course. Come now, we'll be ready whenever you get here. Tell Methos to be patient just a little while longer."

"I will. Thank you."

In the eight years since Amanda found him for us, Eric has never turned us away when it has been important, to my everlasting gratitude. Methos' hopeful eyes meet mine as I hang up.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

He smiles awkwardly in relief.

We leave after an early lunch. There is no need to pack -- our clothes will be cleaned and returned, our bodily needs well taken care of. Methos doesn't even take his sword, as a gesture of trust for our host. I take the katana only to protect him -- that is my role over the coming days. To protect, to serve. And to love.

The monastery is six hours drive away, in the mountains, a deeply wild area very different from the built-up lakeside suburb we moved to some ten years ago. The scenery is pleasant, but wasted on Methos. As I drive, he sleeps in the front seat as best he can, slumped against the door. He looks very drawn, his sharp cheekbones painful to look at -- he twitches and moans a little in his sleep. As I drive, I wonder what triggered his anxieties this time. I never know what will set him off -- sometimes it is a Quickening, or something on the news, sometimes nothing he can identify. It might be the war, or something less obvious. The news of the death of the last wild rhino a couple of years ago sent him into a tailspin - it represented so many things he had lost over his long life.

He's come to expect the periodic increases in tension and stress which cause havoc with his rest and his normally equable nature - he says he hardly knows any Immortal over a thousand years old who doesn't suffer similarly,  and there are different solutions, some of which work better than others. The problem is that the options get fewer every year. The new millennium has been hard for him - he used to deal with the weight of the memories of his almost unbelievable age by going to the wild places, now nearly all gone, or finding an isolated place not touched too much by the modern world. But now even Kathmandu is as easily reached as New York or Paris, and nearly as urbanised. The monasteries are closing in the secular age, and the havens Immortals used for centuries are disappearing. The world now is his prison, and even to an Immortal as extraordinary as him, adjusting to the incredible pace of change is finally taking its toll. He is mostly sanguine about it - he's lived through turmoil and destruction before - but the additional pressures of the Gathering make things worse than they have ever been before.

As the world contracts, escape is no longer an option, so retreat into his mind is all that is left to him. For an Immortal, of course, chemical therapy is of little use, and psychotherapy isn't an option. He told me what he had to deal with, and what he might use to cope, when we first became lovers twenty years ago, and I tried, I really did, to give him what he needed. But my love for him, my desire for that lovely body and the mind it shelters, prevents me going far enough -- I've only ever struck him in anger and that under the influence of a Dark Quickening, and I cannot bring myself to do it in cold blood as he needs. For a while he tried using private clubs, but apart from the practical problems of concealing unnatural healing from wounds inflicted, we both found them too sordid, too limited. And it was never enough to release Methos' overburdened mind, to provide the complete catharsis he needed. Then Amanda told us about Eric.

I'm no fool. I wasn't about to let my lover hand himself over to another Immortal to be tied up and beaten unless I knew everything it was possible to find out about him. I learned that he had lived on holy ground for over four hundred years, and hadn't taken a head in all that time. His lover, also an Immortal, had been with him for five centuries. The two lived quietly together, out of the Game, and opening their home to old Immortals with a need for their particular services and friendship. Amanda trusts him, and now so do I. As thorough as our investigations were, Eric's were more so, I later discovered.

We entered a contract of trust with him, a privilege given only to five other living Immortals. That I was allowed to bring my katana was a sign of his faith in me and my honour that no one else had yet won. For that alone, let alone all his other deeds, he has earned the permanent right to call on me and my assistance, my wallet or my body at any time. Neither of us can begin to repay the gift he has given Methos -- and by extension to me.

It is not a big monastery, nor is it solely occupied by monks. Eric lives in one whole half, along with his lover and his housekeeper who we hardly ever see. He is the only one who is permitted to touch Methos apart from myself -- so we agreed, and so it has remained.

Methos stirs as I drive through the gates just before sunset. "Already?" he says, with only the slightest apprehension, rubbing his eyes. The whitewashed brick and tall campanile of the monastery is lit gold and red by the dying sunset.

"Yes." I pull into a parking bay and turn to him. "You will be safe, Methos," I tell him, as I always do at this point.

"I always am." He fears the pain, a little. He fears the letting go. But he needs it and desires it far more than he fears it, and would never turn back, not here, nor before we start the journey.

Eric is waiting for us, dressed conservatively in a dark silk shirt and fine quality slacks. A handsome man, first death came to him in middle age, and so his black hair is graciously tinged with silver, although his body is strong and younger than his apparent age. He is nowhere near as old as my lover, but much older than me.

"Duncan, Methos. My children, welcome," he says, holding his hands out to us. In acknowledgement of the trust Methos has in this remarkable man, and extraordinarily for my secretive lover, he told Eric his real name not long after we met him. He kisses my lover lightly on the brow. "You need no words now, Methos. You will leave the world outside."

Methos nods, solemn-faced, but does not speak, as he will not until he is given permission at the end of his stay. "My child, do you choose?" Eric holds out his hands. In one there is a gag, the other is empty. Methos hesitates, but Eric waits patiently, until he extends a hand and taps the gag. I shiver a little. Things are even worse than I'd thought.

Eric nods. "Very well. Go and have something to eat, then get ready. I will be waiting for you in the usual place. Take your time."

We do not need him to show us the way, and no servant comes to guide us. I know my car will be discreetly parked out of view, but that is all. For the duration of our stay, I am the only attendant to Methos. That is my role.

The room, now familiar to us, is comfortable without being excessively luxurious - it is almost austere with its subdued colours, plain unpatterned drapes and bedding, and a polished wooden floor relieved only by a dark crimson wool rug. This place appeals to me - it is restful, uncluttered, airy but still private since the illumination and ventilation comes through skylights in the roof, not from windows. A simple, light meal of finger foods is ready for us, together with plentiful supplies of water and juice. I will eat now and later, but this will be Methos' last meal until we leave, both for practical reasons and to help him centre himself.

He stands in the middle of the room awaiting my instructions. Now that he has entered Eric's realm, he no longer chooses for himself, and must wait until he is given permission to do anything, including relieving himself.

I take off his coat. "Sit," I tell him, and once he has, I feed him from my own hand. This is not indulgence. There is nothing Methos hates more than being treated this way, which is the reason he submits to it here -- and only here. His stony expression reveals nothing -- but to me, his dislike is obvious. When he is happy or sad, my lover's mobile features are quick to reveal his thoughts. Only when he is deeply troubled does he bother to hide from me.

I ensure he eats enough and drinks. I clean away the remains of the meal, then I kneel and unlace his shoes, removing them and the socks. "Stand up," I order. I loosen his belt and trousers, dropping them to his ankles, lifting his feet to clear them, not allowing him the slightest control. His eyes watch me intently, unsmilingly, as I remove his sweater and shirts. He shivers a little, and I know it is not from cold. "You are safe, Methos," I say, touching his face. He nods under my hand.

Now he is naked. I take off his watch and the thong from around his neck with the amulet. The only thing I do not remove is the ring I gave him, twin to one on my hand, for he vowed never to remove it, and will not do so unless his finger is cut from his hand.

I leave him there while I strip quickly and fold our clothes up. While we are elsewhere, they will be cleaned. I lead him to the bed, where towels and a rubber sheet have been thoughtfully provided. "Lie there," I tell him, before going to the bathroom and collecting what I need.

Before Eric would agree to our arrangement, he insisted I visited him on my own and spend a weekend with him, learning to do what I am now doing, understanding the reasons behind it, how to ensure the best experience for my self and my lover, to learn signals and procedures and how to ensure that Eric was not impeded in any way by my clumsiness. He did not ask that I participate in any way in the scenes, although it was on offer, but I had to prove to him that I was worthy of trust and of being present. It was some of the most difficult training I have ever put myself through, but it was worth it for the confidence I gained, and for what it gives to Methos. Since we were introduced to him, we have come to visit once or twice a year just to unwind and play - and several times in all those years to do, as we are doing now, to give Methos a means out of the labyrinth his mind has become.

I fill the bag with tepid water and a carefully measured amount of prepared salts that Eric has arranged. I bring it in and hook it on the stand. I kiss Methos on the forehead. "Are you ready?"

He nods, and in response to my gentle nudge, rolls onto his side, drawing his knees up. I squirt a little lubricant on my finger and rub some on his anus. Greasing the nozzle, I insert it gently into him and I slowly release the valve, stroking him a little on his hip as I do so to reassure him. He exhales as the water starts to run into him. We need be in no hurry -- the time is not prescribed, only the amount and the composition of the mixture.

I watch his face for any discomfort -- that is not the point of this exercise. After a few minutes, his mouth tightens a fraction -- "Cramp?" I ask.

He nods -- the enema is a large one, and this is to be expected. I slow the flow of water a little then rub his stomach gently in wide soothing circles, watching him carefully, and see the tightness ease. "Good, Methos. Nearly there."

The whole thing takes nearly half an hour, I suppose, although there are no clocks or watches in the room. The bag empties and I withdraw the nozzle. Methos clamps down to hold the water in, and I rub his stomach for a few moments before giving him my hand. "Up you get." I ease him up carefully, and help him to the bathroom where he relieves himself. I wipe him off, and then hold his cock while he urinates. He is now a little wobbly on his feet, and I can tell he is grateful to sit on the shower stool while I use the spray to rinse him down, then carefully soap and scrub every square centimetre of his body. Eric has chosen a unique herbal mix for this, one which has a scent which seems odd at first but then smells just right to clean and to soothe.

I rinse him again, and then wet his hair, shampooing it and rinsing it as well. I even clean under his nails and wipe out his ears. More symbolism. I wrap him in a towel and make him wait on a chair while I loose my hair and wash myself just as thoroughly if more quickly. I dry myself first, and then him. The bathroom is kept very warm -- there is no chill on the wet skin. For the rest of our time here, we will both be naked.

I brush his hair tidily. Then I apply a fine, odourless oil to his skin, and he stands obediently still while I run my hands along his arms, over his chest and down his long legs. I make him sit so I can oil his face, wiping away any excess with a towel. In all this time, his eyes follow my every move -- he trusts me. If he did not, we could not do this.

Even with the intimacy of this contact, his cock is quite limp. What we are doing is not about sex, although it undoubtedly has its erotic aspects and he may come more than once before we leave. It is about him regaining himself, and mere sexual relief is nowhere near enough for that.

I take him back to the bed and make him bend over it. More lubricant -- I work it into him generously with one hand, keeping the other on the small of his back to reassure him. This is at once familiar and strange. How often have I done this to him, or him to me, before we make love? But that is not what we are doing here.

I make sure he is well stretched, and then pick up the plug Eric has chosen. It seems a little bigger than the last one we used, and Methos hisses with surprise as I ease it into him. That is the only thing I will insert into him now -- Eric has more for him, I know.

I make him stand, and kiss him again. "Are you okay?" I ask carefully.

This is absolutely his last chance to change his mind, and always his fear and apprehension is greatest at this point. He has gone stark white, his eyes huge and the pupils almost eclipsing the gold and green, although the set of his lips tells me he is fighting his fear with the courage I have come to expect from him. I wait until he nods, then I take his hand and lead him through a different door than the one we entered by -- a safe passage to the room where we will spend most of our time.

The chamber is windowless, and lit by soft uplighters on the panelled walls. The floor, like our bedroom, is polished wood, dark this time, expensive but practical - to be blunt, it is easily cleaned of blood and other fluids. There is a wall full of built in cupboards, almost invisible, very discreet, and the various bars, poles and tables are finished in brushed steel. All spare in detail, but costly and well made. There are a couple of comfortable leather chairs, set aside from the main equipment. If it were not for the paraphernalia of the scene we are about to enter, it could be an executive's office.

Eric is waiting in one of the chairs, as he promised, and he is now dressed in black. Nothing showy nor anything as tasteless as leather. Just black, easily cleaned, anonymous clothes. He walks over to us as we enter the room.

"He is ready," I report and step back. Eric holds up a collar to Methos' lips and my lover kisses it before it is buckled around his long neck, its black a startling contrast against his pale skin. I see him swallow, and his eyes are still wide -- accepting the collar does not come easily to a man who once was a slave for real. Then leather manacles are shown to him and he holds his wrists out to be bound -- he will not be released now until this is all over, possibly days from now.

"Kneel and make obeisance," Eric says, and Methos does so, sinking gracefully to his knees and kissing Eric's shoe. Eric lifts him up and kisses him on the cheek before taking him to the frame.

This was one of the pieces of equipment I was asked to examine thoroughly on my weekend alone here -- I know it has an insanely high breaking strain, and there are no safety releases, just as there are no safewords here. Once Methos is bound here, he would not ever get free without help, no matter how long he hung there -- this is why he has me here, for reassurance, and why trust is so important.

There is a chain hanging from a pulley at the top of the frame. I attach it to the wrist manacles and haul Methos' arms over his head until his chest is stretched taut, before locking it off. Then I spread his legs and attach his ankles to the two poles, so that he is vulnerable and open to what will be done to him. I step back again. Methos' face is expressionless, his eyes open and forward - he does not watch me bind him. I am glad of that.

Eric has watched me approvingly and now comes forward. He has the gag in his hand. "You have chosen this, Methos. You know what this means." He engages Methos' eyes and again my lover nods, confirming assent. "Open." Methos opens his mouth and Eric slides the dildo gag in. I know it is comfortable -- we spent a long time, Methos and I, choosing one that is safe and that he can tolerate easily for hours. He needs to. The gag is not to prevent him screaming -- it is to allow him to scream more without fear or embarrassment. It is a sign that he needs more from Eric than usual, that this will be more than usually intense for all of us. He has not asked for the gag in three years.

Eric fastens the gag straps, then stands back looking at Methos' naked body in frank admiration. It is not hard to work out why -- displayed like this, with the muscles of his chest stretched, his long white neck bisected by the dark collar, and his powerful legs straining against the awkward position, Methos is one of the most erotic things I have ever seen, as my erection is witness to. However Eric is not hard, nor will he become so -- he is a eunuch, castrated before his first death over a thousand years ago -- but one would have to be blind to be immune to the beauty of the man before him.

He runs his palm down Methos' smooth chest and over his hips, as if to settle him. Then he runs his nails lightly over the dark nipples, which bud attractively. He pinches one, and then the other. "Lovely, Methos," he says admiringly.

He holds out his hand, and I pass the nipple clamps to him. Every time I handle them, I wonder how they can be applied to human flesh without tearing it. I tried one once and had to take it off immediately. There are three toothed jaws which grip the captive nipple, and make it feel as if it is indeed being ripped off.

Eric teases the nipple he is holding, then pinches round the aureole before suddenly attaching the clamp. Methos whimpers, but only a little. He makes no sound at all as the second one is fixed. His nipples are now reddening against the silver steel. Eric flicks the clamps with his finger and Methos bucks a little, grimacing.

"Good. The sound, please, Duncan."

I hand him a long slender piece of steel, well lubricated, then kneel before Methos. I slide a metal cock ring onto him, around his limp cock and his balls. Like the collar and manacles, it will be on a while.

Now I have to get him hard, no easy task given how apprehensive he is. I brace my hands on his thighs and take him into my mouth, rolling back his foreskin with my tongue, and sucking on the slit. I do this from love, and also from pleasure -- I can never get enough of the taste of him, although the taste of other men's come, even my own, nauseates me. Eventually he responds to my touch - I have had, after all, a long time to perfect the technique. I relish him growing in my mouth, and reluctantly let him go.

"Master," I say obediently to let Eric know I am done, then stand and move back out of his way. There is fear on Methos' face -- he hates this procedure -- but it is all part of the control. The hollow sound is specially made -- at the end is a flange which Eric will erect by pushing on a little lever, preventing it from being removed, anchoring it in Methos' bladder against the base of his penis. It is one of the very few things Eric uses that he would not use on a mortal.

Eric takes Methos' cock in one hand, and they look into each other's eyes -- one man assessing, the other staring back proudly, defiantly, without flinching. Then the master concentrates on inserting the sound into his urethra. Now Methos groans a little behind the gag -- I know this hurts, even with the lube, although once in place it will rest against his prostate and be as much pleasure as discomfort. While it is there it will prevent his relieving himself or coming. More than that, there is a ring at the other end of the sound to which Eric now fastens a fine but strong chain. He threads it through the ring on the left nipple clamp, across to the right, then back down to the sound's ring, where it is tied off. Now every time Methos' cock moves or bobs, it pulls on his nipples. There is already a fine sheen of sweat on my lover's brow, but Eric has barely begun.

He walks around my lover, checking the bonds, tugging on the butt plug a little and nodding approvingly at how snug it is. The leisurely pace is designed to build up apprehension, and it is working, for when Eric runs a fingernail down Methos' spine, he shudders. Eric stands behind Methos so my lover cannot see him signal me to remove the buttplug and replace it with an even bigger one.

Eric hands me a tube of lubricant -- one laced with capsaicin, a potent irritant. I work the smaller plug out, then smear the capsaicin paste on the larger one. Eric nods, and I thrust it into Methos in a single movement, giving him no time to adjust. He grimaces behind the gag, and then moans as he feels the heat from the lube. He must feel afire front to back, I know. We have only begun.

Still behind Methos, Eric slaps his arse a couple of times lightly, then his back, before he points to the leather flogger which I hand him. This is purely for warm up -- it hardly hurts compared to the other things that will be used, but Methos still yelps quietly when Eric first strikes his buttocks -- and then keeps up a steady rhythm, reddening his arse and the backs of his legs. He works Methos over until I can almost see the blood pulsing -- later, I will see it for real.

Now he wants the container from the little fridge. Methos jerks as the ice touches his reddened flesh and is trailed over the sensitive skin, not for long enough to soothe, only to startle and sting a little.

Next comes the riding crop, which really  _does_  hurt -- Eric hit me once, and once only, to prove that. Angry welts stand up on Methos' skin, over his back, and down the crack of his arse. Eric moves slowly around to strike the virgin flesh on the chest, the inner thighs. Methos makes no sound -- strange, he always makes a lot of noise to begin with, but as the pain increases, he goes silent. Eric will have a job to do to break through that impressive control. The only area he avoids is the genitals -- that will come later.

As Eric lays the crop down, Methos' chest is heaving, and he is running with sweat. His eyes are a little wild, and he jerks again as Eric toys with the nipple clamps and I slowly turn the enormous plug in his arse. Pain, a different type, giving him a break but not a real rest -- Eric doesn't want him coming down.

I watch for any signs of serious injury or agony -- Methos may be Immortal but this is not meant to be torture. Eric takes enormous -- almost too much care -- with his 'children' but I know my lover better than anyone in the world. I can tell when things are really too much. He is nowhere near that point.

More ice over the welts. Eric steps behind Methos again and I can see him trying to decide between the whip and the fibreglass cane. Both are frighteningly painful and the injury risk hideous -- even with care, Eric will certainly make my lover bleed. He picks up the cane, and I nod. He will use the whip after.

At first Methos screams in agony as the cane lashes the back of his legs, but then goes quiet again. I don't know how he does it -- my guess is that without the gag, his tongue would be bitten in two. It doesn't stop Eric of course, and he strikes again and again, over the shoulders, down the back, the buttocks, and the tender flesh of the thighs, a place I love to suckle on and which is now bleeding from a multitude of bruised weals. I can see the blue flickers of Quickening healing as soon as the cane rises from his skin, closing the wounds that would incapacitate a mortal for days.

By the time Eric stops, Methos is hanging limply by his wrists, a mass of raw and bleeding flesh. His head is lolling forward, and his hair is drenched.

I take a cloth and wipe his sweaty face, but his eyes are closed and he does not see me. I wipe the blood off his body until many of the wounds are healed -- he shudders at the touch of the cloth on his cuts.

Eric nods and I step well away. He picks up the bullwhip. This is something I hate to watch, no matter how skilled the person wielding it. The whip could take out an eye from which, Immortal or no, Methos would not recover. Eric is the only person I would ever trust to do this on anyone I love. On my weekend up here, Eric stripped every thread of clothing from my body using the bullwhip -- I never even felt a whisper of it near my skin. Even so ....

Eric runs the whip's tail through his fingers. Like all his equipment, it is handmade and expensive, but he still checks everything for breakage or cracks. Satisfied, he stands back and wields the weapon. The crack is terrifying -- but he has not touched Methos. He cracks it again and we both jump. The third one is for real, and now it is Methos who makes the loudest sound, keening over this fresh agony. Eric waits until he is silent, then strikes again. Waits. Blood runs down Methos' back from two vicious cuts -- Eric has intentionally wounded him. Methos does not scream so long this time -- already he is adjusting to this new pain. Eric speeds up, and now no longer waits for Methos to fall silent. My lover is quickly covered in blood, and now the stomach, the soft skin over the area between hip and groin, takes the blows in equal measure.

Eric stops after what seems to me an unendurably long time, the silence shocking, and the only sound is the heaving breathing of my lover, gasping around the gag, drawing air into his tortured chest. I take a new wet cloth and wipe the worst of the blood off Methos. His eyes are closed, and his hair is dripping with sweat now, his skin flushed as if he has run a marathon.

Eric signals me, and I release Methos' ankles. I hold him around the waist as Eric unlocks the chain holding his arms up, and he sags without its support. "Leave him, Duncan," Eric says after a moment, and making sure he is steady, I step back. Methos sways but stays upright. Eric unties the gag strap and eases it out. He hands it to me, and I note the teeth marks -- this one will be no good any more.

"Kneel and make obeisance," Eric says, and Methos unsteadily drops to his knees. I think he might pass out, but he manages to bend and kiss the foot, pushing himself back up. Eric helps him stand. "Very good, my child. You did very well," he says softly, kissing Methos on the forehead, signalling the end of the session.

I put my arm around Methos' waist and help him back to our room. Now is a fragile time for him, and I am careful not to speak or break the mood. He has begun the journey back to himself and my job is to tend to his physical needs, no more, no less.

I take him to the bathroom -- he is still wearing the nipple clamps and the sound and will do so all night, to help him stay in the place where Eric has worked so hard to get him.

He sits silently and I wipe him down with a warm cloth, oiling the already healed skin and putting witch hazel on the remaining bruises. The sound can be uncapped to allow him to piss, and I let him do so. The buttplug will stay in place until morning.

I offer him water with a little juice in it, and a few essential salts to make it nearly isotonic. He is thirsty but I am careful not to let him drink too much -- he will not be able to piss again until morning and I don't want him to be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

I make him lie on the bed before I tie his wrist manacles to the rope fastened to the headboard. He can turn over how he wishes, but cannot get up -- he will be reasonably comfortable, as much as he can be with the things in and attached to his body. I cover him up and he is asleep almost as soon as I stand up -- he was exhausted even before we made the decision to come up. Too many disturbed nights, too much tension. I stroke his thin face, and kiss it, hoping he is starting to be at peace.

I wash myself, and eat a little, drink more. I am tired -- I have to be on alert all the time Eric and Methos are together, and it has taken several hours tonight before Eric was happy with my lover's state.

It is a battle between two powerful men -- Methos is determined not to break, and Eric has to increase the pain until Methos releases, opening the way for that fierce will to be ablated, to assist my lover in letting go completely. The clubs we went to were unable to even scratch the surface of his need -- 5,000 years of determination and will needed the domination only another Immortal, and that only an old one, could bring. I was not old enough, nor strong enough. I thank God for the hundredth time for Eric.

I turn off the lights and climb onto the bed next to Methos, being careful not to touch him in case I set the pain in his nipples off by moving the chain. He can feel my Quickening, even in his sleep, and I know it is a comfort to him.

It is not easy for me to sleep. I have not got the pain to help me work through what I have seen tonight, always disturbing, always a little frightening. I lie still and ease my breathing, slipping into a meditation exercise Eric taught me for this very purpose. From that state, I move imperceptibly into real slumber.

I wake to the gentle, if insistent, susurration of sound from an artfully tuned, deep noted wind-chime. I do not have to get up -- in this, I alone have control. I decide when Methos gets up, not Eric. My lover is still deeply asleep, and I will not disturb such a rare peace.

There is food for me in the little vestibule, which I eat before using the bathroom and readying myself for the day with some deep breathing. It feels odd not to be working out, but a few days' break will not kill me.

When I come out, Methos is watching me, utterly still, calm eyes wide and his face unsmiling. I wonder again how he can sleep with the clamps on, the entrances to his body plugged up and his hands bound. I could not do it -- he has told me before that he only can do so because I am there, which gave me a deep pang of pain, hoping I will always be there to do this for him.

I kiss his forehead -- we save our more loving touches for after -- and release his wrists from the headboard. I give him a glass of juice to drink, and then help him piss. No shower this morning. His nipples look angry and painful and I can tell by the way he is holding himself that they really do hurt. He follows me back to the room where he once more kneels to Eric. The day has begun.

Eric puts a new gag in Methos' mouth, then my lover steps up and lies down on a padded table, one specially made for this purpose. His hands are drawn over his head and tied off. His feet are put in stirrups and locked in. His genitals and his anus are completely exposed, and their availability will be exploited. This is the most difficult thing Methos has to endure. He has been raped many times over a long life, and taken by brutal lovers -- exposing himself to this particular pain takes a bravery I can barely understand. It is, as I have seen, a peculiarly effective treatment.

Eric walks around the table, once again assessing, admiring. Methos' eyes follow his every movement. As Eric intends, Methos is focused on him now, not on me. I wait quietly by a tray of quasi-surgical and frankly quite frightening tools, ready to assist.

Eric stops, standing between the outstretched legs, and rubs the flange of the butt plug. Methos' eyes narrow a little but it is his only reaction. Eric takes the ring of the plug and twists it within Methos' body and my lover shifts a little -- the movement will have reawakened the burn from the capsaicin.

Slowly Eric pulls the plug out, and I take it from him, handing him a tube of the capsaicin lubricant. He smears it liberally on his fingers, then jabs them into Methos' arse. Methos makes a small grunt -- only, it seems, from the effort of taking the invaders.

I know what Eric is doing -- he is massaging the prostate. Methos' cock hardens around the sound and as it moves, it tugs on the nipple chains. He shifts again. "Be still, child," Eric admonishes, and Methos stops moving instantly. Eric keeps up the insistent massage and rolls Methos' balls, now swollen from a night wearing the cock ring.

Eric nods to me and then towards the sound. I unhook the chain linking it to the nipple clamps, release the lever, and slide it out slowly from Methos' erect penis.

"The syringe, Duncan," Eric orders. There is a plastic syringe next to a vial of fluid, some of which I draw up into the syringe before handing it to Eric. The fluid is a menthol solution, and will burn like fire inside Methos' cock.

I hold the penis still, and Eric, one handed, inserts the syringe tip into the urethra before injecting the menthol. Methos moans quietly, his eyes closed against the pain of the burn -- his cock is irritated from a night with a metal rod inside it, and the menthol stings like hell.

Eric keeps massaging his prostate, and signals me to use my hand on Methos to keep him hard. He hands me a little of the capsaicin lubricant, which I put on my palm and then stroke Methos with it. Fire without and fire within -- it must be maddening, but he only wriggles a little before he stills.

Eric now begins to fuck Methos with his fingers, jabbing his prostate with every thrust, in time with my strokes, taking his cue from me. This is as close as I get to hurting my lover in these sessions, and if I did not know there was pleasure in the pain, I could not do it.

It takes a while to bring him to climax, but Eric reaches up and tugs on the chain to the clamps. Methos moans and comes over my fingers, groaning again as the menthol burns up his urethra. His face is twisted as he comes, head strained back, his teeth gritted, and the shifting of his body is not from pleasure but a futile attempt to escape the pain.

"Put it back in, Duncan," Eric says, and before Methos can soften, I reinsert the sound, its path now lubricated with the menthol. The chain is refixed.

Eric withdraws his fingers and I clean his hand for him. Methos' hole gapes a little from being filled -- for the moment it is left empty but not for long.

Once, during these sessions, Eric fisted Methos. He never repeated it -- he said my lover enjoyed it too much, and would leave it for us to do for pleasure at home. What he does here must necessarily be mixed with pain, or it will not allow Methos to let go.

That is why he now picks up an enormous dildo, over a foot long -- not as thick as the butt plugs we have used, but knobbly. I clean around Methos' arse, and then, at Eric's commands, lube him up with the capsaicin, and spread it thickly on the dildo. Eric pushes it into him in one long, smooth movement. Methos struggles against the intrusion, and then the only movement is the heaving of his chest. "Good, child. Well done," Eric says, pressing on his stomach -- I wonder if he can feel the rigid plastic inside the thin body.

Eric now turns his attention back to Methos' angry looking balls. He slathers them with the lube, then eases the cock ring off over them and over the rigid erection. Methos groans softly as his testicles are compressed and Eric rolls them not very gently to make the blood supply return to normal. His cock dips, tugging on the nipple clamps, which makes him whimper slightly. Eric releases the left nipple from the clamp, then pinches it. Methos arches off the table, but lies still when the right one is released -- such amazing control. Eric takes the chain off, and I lay it aside.

Now my lover looks almost normal, as if he has an erection and nothing more, although I can see the metal ring protruding from the top of his cock. His nipples are quickly healing from the abuse and his balls are returning to normal. Eric is only beginning though.

At his command, I wash Methos' pubic area and cover the coarse dark hair with shaving cream. Taking a straight razor, Eric shaves all the fine hair off my lover. I hate watching him scrape the blade -- sharp as my katana -- over Methos' balls, but there is nary a nick or scratch on Methos when he is done. I wipe him down with a damp cloth, then Eric smears a menthol cream over the bared skin and the balls. He told me once he could use surgical spirit but the menthol burns longer. Methos bears it all in stoic silence but it hurts, I can tell, from the way his cock has gone as limp as it can do with the rod inside it.

Eric shaves Methos' armpits and the few scattered hairs on his pale chest, but doesn't apply the menthol cream. I concentrate on watching to see if Methos' long legs are cramping in the stirrups, and massage them carefully. Nothing must distract from the deliberate sensations and cramps would do that.

Once finished, and I have cleaned up, Eric walks around the table again, running a gentle hand down the denuded chest. As he walks past Methos' feet, he pushes the dildo in and out a few times, not roughly, nor to cause pain, just sensation. I watch the apprehension in Methos' eyes, no doubt wondering what is coming next.

He has not long to find out. Eric goes to the tray and picks up a handful of fine silver alligator toothed clips and strolls back down to stand between Methos' raised legs. He gestures to me to hold Methos' cock out of the way and then he attaches the clips in a ring on the loose skin of the balls, and pinching between the two testicles. I wince in sympathy, having sensitive balls myself. Methos doesn't make any noise, although he shudders. Taking his cock from me, Eric pinches the foreskin together with a clip on either side of the sound. He pulls the cock up, making the skin tug, which must hurt like hell but my lover doesn't move. This is where Eric and Methos begin the worst of their duel, the battle of their wills. Everything until now has been foreplay.

On the tray there is a pot of warming wax. Eric has told me it is similar to one used by beauticians but uses different wax at a higher temperature. He doesn't like candles -- there isn't enough control. The container is rather like the ones used by batik makers, so he says, but it is my lover who will bear the pattern today. The wax is black, a little peculiarity Eric has never explained, and is perhaps purely for aesthetic reasons.

I wipe Methos' chest down with alcohol, sensitising the skin, and immediately I finish, Eric begins the delicate tracery over Methos' skin. The container is held very close to the surface the wax is laid on, so the wax has not time to cool as it falls. At first, the pattern is filigree, and Methos is stony faced and silent. Eric pinches a nipple to make it pebble and then pours the wax on to it. Methos' chest heaves mightily, but he still bites back the cry. The wax splashes now in generous gouts, moving slowly and inexorably towards Methos' cock. The skin ahead of the wax trail is raised in goose bumps in anticipation, and quickly coated by the burning liquid, making it look like it was covered in black plastic -- or molten volcanic glass.

Methos finally screams, just once, as his cock and balls are doused inelegantly with the wax, which trickles down his arse before congealing over the anus. Eric continues down the soft skin of the inner thigh but Methos makes no further sound. Finally finished, Eric takes an ice cube and shows me what he wants me to do, which is rub over the wax to make it hard so he can scrape it off with a knife, the blistered skin underneath the solidified coating healing as the wax is removed. It takes much longer than the application, and by the time Eric is done, Methos looks tired but there is no other sign of emotion.

Eric appears a little frustrated by his inability to break that iron will and signals a time out. I free Methos' legs and lower them down, then wipe his face. Eric sits down some distance from us, waiting for me to attend to my lover and to clear away the cold wax. He looks weary as he drinks from a bottle of juice -- this is hard on him, I know.

He does not rest for long and I can see the short break has given him a little more energy. He nods, and I refix Methos' legs in the stirrups.

Eric strokes my lover's face. "Ah, child. Don't fight me. You can trust us. Trust me, Methos." He holds the hazel eyes in his gaze until Methos nods almost imperceptibly. "Better. Feel the pain, child. There is no shame in it."

I see Methos' chest rise and fall heavily as if he were sighing behind the gag. Eric looks at him measuringly -- then, to my surprise, he reaches behind Methos' head and undoes the gag. "You are hiding behind this, child. Let's try it without." He slides the gag out and puts it on the tray.

Eric stands up, and takes a short multi-tailed whip from the wall. There is no danger of this cutting skin -- the strands are supple and blunt ended. But they sting -- and worse -- when they are applied with striking force to the balls, and to the cock, and over the nipples.

Faster and faster he strikes, and then signals me to jack Methos' cock, which pulls on the clips on his balls and on his foreskin. Without the gag, Methos' cries are unmuffled, incredibly loud in the small room. Eric nods towards Methos' genitals and I understand, shifting one hand to the dildo, and I fuck my lover with it while jacking him off with my other hand. Eric keeps up the rapid strikes over the chest and stomach and now Methos is screaming, wailing with the pain.

It's not enough. Eric puts the whip down and picks up a long thin cane. He pushes me to my knees but signals me to keep tormenting Methos' genitals. Then without preliminary, he swishes the cane above my head and across the sole of Methos' left foot. Methos screams sharply. The right foot. The scream is cut off by a shocked gasp of pain.

Rhythmically, Eric strikes one foot, then the other, over and over. Now Methos shrieks without inhibition and if he were not Immortal, I think his throat would be irreparably damaged. The caning goes on for what feels like forever, and even Eric is building up a sweat. Methos is jerking continuously, pulling against the bonds, and I can barely stand to watch what is happening. His feet are swollen, and knowing how sensitive they are, I don't know how he can remember not to speak, not to beg for mercy. I don't know what Eric is waiting for, but I keep up what I am doing, silently praying for it to be over.

And then, I look up and I see. Methos has begun to sob silently, his body shaking in its bonds. Eric drops the cane, and touches the wet face, the tears running down to the table. "Yes, child. Give it to me. Duncan, come."

I go to my lover, and kiss his tears, stroking the hair gently. Below, Eric is freeing Methos from the cruel clips, and my lover cries out a little as each is released. Eric removes the rod from Methos' cock, and then slowly pulls the dildo out of his arse. Methos whimpers and closes his eyes, the tears still running from them. Eric releases his legs and lays each gently down on the table and signals me to free his arms.

"Hold him, Duncan," he says quietly, so I pull Methos to my chest and rock him a little, letting him come down. By now, the burn from the chemicals will have eased, and the pain from his injuries will begin to subside. Eric comes close, and Methos turns his face to him so that Eric may kiss him on the forehead.

I hold my lover like that for a while until Eric signals that his feet have healed enough, and that we need to move on. I help Methos off the table -- he nearly falls. I hold him up.

"Make obeisance, child," Eric says. This cannot be omitted. I free Methos and he kneels, swaying, and then bends to kiss the shoe. He stays bent over for so long I think he has fainted, but he pushes himself up and manages to stand without help.

"Clean him and give him a drink, Duncan. Then come to the other room. Do not delay, child."

We are halfway through the process. I return to our room, and let Methos piss before I give him a quick but thorough wash, and offer him liquid. He drinks thirstily from the glass of weak juice. He looks exhausted, but his expressive eyes are more alive than they have been for weeks.

I hug him and then lead him to the other room we use, one which is very different from the first. In this one, the walls are soundproofed. There is but a single piece of furniture -- a bed with silk sheets and, over that, a warm comforter. Ring bolts are screwed into the wall just above the bed, the only clue as to its purpose.

I make Methos lie down, lift his arms above his head, and attach his wrists by a rope to the ring bolts. His arms are not stretched, and he could turn if I did not put manacles on his ankles and attach them to ropes at the other end of the bed, leaving his legs spread out but not under any strain. I draw the silk sheets over him, and settle the comforter over that.

Eric comes in and checks all I have done. "Now, my child. Time for you to rest and to think," he tells Methos.

He hands me soft putty with which I fill Methos' ears. I cover his eyes with a soft, lightly tied black silk scarf. Methos is now as sensorily deprived as we can make him -- the silk sheets offer no friction and he will hear and see nothing until he is released.

I kiss him on the lips, Eric kisses him on the forehead as is his habit and then we leave him there. The door is locked, he is safe but entirely in our hands. He will be observed but not from within the room.

Eric takes me to another bedroom. It is time for him to turn his attentions to me. Eric's lover - whom I have only met once - is monitoring Methos while Eric and I are together. I used to worry that Henry would be jealous, but I have since realised that while Eric may get pleasure from being with me, this is for me, not for him. Part of Methos' recovery is reinforcing my own strength, my resilience. More than that, Eric has explained that if I do not release the strain I feel over what I see and do here, then I will eventually be unable to continue. He understands that what I see disturbs me, no matter how often I see it, no matter how much I understand Methos' need for it. I don't know which I find harder to accept -- someone striking my lover with the intent to cause him horrifying pain, or my lover's passive acceptance of it. Fortunately, Eric knows all this. He believes in treating not just his 'patient' but the relationship. I have had cause, over and over, to be grateful for his care of me.

He stands and waits for me. "Kiss me, child," and gladly I do so. Eric is a very sensual man, even with his disability which he sees, strangely, almost as a blessing -- 'no premature ejaculation worries, dear boy,' he joked once. He tastes good, clean and warm, and I take my time. "Undress me, Duncan," he says when we break free.

I slowly unbutton the black shirt and slide it off his shoulders, folding it carefully and putting it aside. I kneel and remove his shoes, bestowing a kiss on each foot before I stand and undo his belt. He steps out of his trousers and I hang them on a nearby valet stand.

I take a moment, as always to admire the powerful physique of this man, narrow-hipped, broad-chested. A body meant for battle -- but hiding a gentle and generous soul. The scars from his horrible injuries are hidden by his thick pubic bush, and the cock nestling in it is large and uncut. He smiles at my looking him over -- he's been doing the same to me.

He takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom, where a hot bath has been run and waits for us. He sits behind me and without asking, begins to soap my back using the same herbal mixture I used earlier on Methos. We sit in silence as he washes me. His breathing is very slow and regular, and I use it to modulate my own.

"Duncan, do you want to talk, child?" he says eventually in a kindly, gentle voice that envelops me in a feeling of safety and love.

"Will he be all right, do you think?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so." Eric pulls my hair back away from my face. "He must learn not to let things get so bad. I was worried we would never get through to him."

"He tries to handle it on his own. He hates not being strong enough."

Eric chuckles. "Being strong enough is not Methos' problem, child. It's learning to be weak. You have the same flaw."

"I don't understand -- why did he break today? The pain seemed worse yesterday."

"We all have different triggers. I don't know for sure. He certainly keeps me on my toes," and he chuckles again.

We sit in the bath for a long time, Eric tracing his fingers gently over my nipples as he holds me against him. I can feel the tension leaving my body -- I only hope Methos feels this good. In answer to my unvoiced question, Eric calls quietly. "Henry, my dear, how is he?" This room and the bathroom are continuously linked by mike to where Eric's lover is watching Methos on CCTV. Later, he'll be watching us -- everything is recorded.

"He's asleep, love. Breathing normally. And you?"

"I'm content, dear. Thank you."

It bothered me a lot in the beginning that Eric's lover could hear and see us, but that had amused Eric no end. "Henry  _enjoys_  it, child," he told me. "He's such a voyeur. Believe me, you're giving him a wonderful treat. And he will be  _so_  grateful later." Eric has the dirtiest laugh.

He gets out before me, and leads me out of the tub, drying me carefully. I return the favour and kiss him gently. "What can I do for you now, child?" he asks me.

"May I penetrate you, master?"

He nods graciously and lets me take him to the bed. He's told me that anal sex is the thing he really enjoys since the nerves there are completely unaffected by his injury. He likes my mouth too -- even though he can't get hard his cock is still sensitive to pleasure -- and as he sits on the edge of the bed, I kneel and suckle him, his hands resting on my long, unbound hair, stroking it lightly. Eventually he touches my face to signal that he is ready for more.

I would be nervous, knowing his vast experience in lovemaking, if he had not gone to so much trouble to make me relaxed first. He sits against the headboard, legs raised and spread. "Let me see you touch yourself, Duncan."

Obediently, I put oil on my cock and begin to stroke myself, taking care to pinch and rub my nipples to give him a good show. He watches through narrowed eyes, his tongue licking his lips a little, showing he likes what he sees. I want to touch him, but wait until he says he is ready.

Finally -- "Stand up, child." I stand beside the bed, and draw him close. He lies down and lets me put his legs over my shoulders. He likes to be unlubricated, only using what is on my cock and on my hands, and I ease a finger in quickly. "Yes," he hisses. I lean over and kiss him, entering him as I do, with him bent almost double below me. He is not easy to penetrate virtually dry but he expects me to do it, so I do. Once in, I need to wait -- not to let him adjust, but for  me to do so. My face is resting next to his. "Yes, Duncan," he whispers, sliding a hand between us and rubbing my nipple. I thrust gently. "Oh yes," he says.

I lean back and begin to fuck him slowly but deeply, angling for the gland which gives him so much pleasure. I have no doubt that he and Henry are much more adventurous together than we are, but this is not about competing with his lover. It is an act of faith and affection which ties us together so that we can help the man whom I love and whom he sees as a close friend. It is also a necessary safety valve for me, a highly enjoyable one as I once again confirm. He is open mouthed in pleasure, grunting a little in time with my thrusts. "Harder, Duncan. Fuck me harder."

I obey and begin to thrust as brutally as I can. I don't do this with Methos -- he enjoys a more subtle love making with control being important. Eric likes that too, but only with Henry. "Frankly, child, I just like a good hard rogering from time to time," he confessed after the first time we did this. "And your great thick Scottish cock is just what I fancy." I'm happy to oblige, and my great Scottish cock is very happy in the tight hot channel.

"Dammit it, Duncan. Fuck me!" I have to grip his hips almost painfully to stop him being pushed all over the bed and the noise of our coupling sounds obscenely loud to me. I wonder if this is for Henry's sake, but from the look on Eric's face, it is what he likes too.

I can't hold back my coming forever, and I explode in hot gushes inside him. He groans his delight, gripping my shoulders and pulling me close, keeping my cock inside in him as long as he can.

He pulls down my head so that my face rests against his cheek, and kisses me before allowing me to stand and release from him. I lower his legs carefully. "Thank you, master," I say.

"You are always most welcome, child. Now clean us up and come rest with me."

I bring warm cloths from the bathroom and wipe him carefully, then myself. I let the washcloths fall to the floor, and he pulls me into the bed beside him where he lets me hold him as he goes to sleep. Another expression of his trust in me -- a true rarity between Immortals. Eric is unusual in this, and in many ways. He is too good for our race, I often think.

I don't know how long I sleep, whether it is day or night outside. I wake to the gentle chime and Henry's quiet voice over the speakers. "Duncan, he's awake. I think he needs you."

I slip out of the bed -- Eric has barely moved and is not needed for this. I get the key and make my way to the soundproofed room and let myself in.

Methos' face turns to me immediately, and I can see that from under the blindfold, tears have fallen. I sit on the bed and release his arms and his legs before drawing him to my chest and stroking him. "I'm here, my love," I say. He can feel the rumble of my voice through the walls of his chest, but the words are less important than my presence. He has reached some crisis and pushed through it -- Henry would have waited until that before calling me. I also know that Henry is no longer watching us, and will have gone to his lover's bed.

I climb in under the silk sheets and pull Methos close. He still wears the manacles holding his wrists together and the collar, because it is not my right to remove them. He can feel my erection against his stomach and he twists so his back is against my chest.

I know what he wants. I push my cock into him, and then remain still. It is not fucking he wants but closeness -- he wants to be joined with me, to me. I wrap my arms around him tightly, put my leg over his, and with my cock buried in his body, he goes back to sleep, still blind and deaf, but totally safe and cherished.

We both sleep again, soundly and dreamlessly. I wake first, and I can tell from the slight movements of Methos' body that he is close to waking also -- and probably will want a piss if my own bladder is any indication. I speak into the silence. "Henry, we'll be ready soon."

I know I've been heard, and get up and use the small, concealed bathroom. When I return, Methos has turned on his back and I know he's awake. I remove the plugs from his ears. "Easy, Methos," I whisper, and he nods slightly. I stroke his face, giving him a chance to reorient himself. When I judge he's ready, I untie the scarf, and uncover his eyes. The lighting in this room is kept deliberately very dim, but he still blinks after so long in total darkness. He smiles at me, and I kiss him. "You are well," I state rather than ask. He smiles again and I rejoice at the serenity in his eyes. "I love you."

For answer he reaches for me with his tied hands, and I kiss him deeply. When we part, I say, "I bet you need to pee." He smiles and I help him up. He relieves himself, and as we come out, I hear Henry over the intercom.

"He's ready when you are, my chicks."

I lead Methos back to the chamber where Eric is waiting for us. He smiles at Methos -- the change is so obvious. He kisses him on the cheek.

"Well done, child. You are ready to end this?"

Methos nods, and Eric unfastens the collar from his neck and the wrist manacles. Without being told to, Methos kneels and takes Eric's hand to kiss the back of it. Eric pats his dark hair affectionately.

"Thank you, master," Methos says warmly. Taking the collar off is his permission to speak and to choose for himself now.

"Always welcome, my dear Methos. Don't let things get so bad next time, you foolish creature," he admonishes fondly, and Methos nods in agreement, a broad smile on his face. "Now Duncan, take him back and feed the poor thing. I won't see you before you go."

He holds out his hand, and like Methos, I kneel and kiss it. "Thank you, master. We are grateful."

He chuckles. "Oh, so am I, Duncan. I must say Henry seems inspired by you this time."

Methos looks at us and grins. He knows what happens while he is alone, and approves -- he even joked once about getting hold of some of the tapes. And maybe, if he's very good, he might find them in his stocking one Christmas.

We walk side by side back to our bedroom and Methos heads straight for the fridge to pull out a plate of sandwiches. "I'm  _starving_!" he exclaims as he pounces on the repast.

"And all you can think of is food," I pout. He grins at me with his mouth full and swallows.

"Food first, Duncan. Must keep my strength up." I pinch a sandwich off the plate. I am hungry too. I sit on the generous armchair and he settles himself on my lap.

"Oooph," I gasp, all the air knocked out of me. "God, Methos -- maybe I should keep you on a diet for longer."

"Just you try it, Highlander." But he kisses me before taking another bite, which tells me where his priorities really lie.

I love to see him like this. Serene, relaxed, unwary. The wariness will return as soon as we leave Holy Ground. It has to. But the serenity will last longer, and the peace. We don't discuss what happens here -- we don't need to. He has processed whatever was troubling him, and set it aside. And until the weight of his cares and his memories presses too hard on him again -- and sadly for him, they always will -- he will be my usual snarky, irritating and bewitching lover.

I pet him as he eats, admiring his sleek skin and his hairlessness.

"You like it, don't you" he asks, seeing where my eyes have drifted.

"Hmmm. Pity it'll itch."

"Yup," he laughs. "So I'll only keep it this time if you promise to shave me."

I shudder. "No, I don't think so. I trust Eric, but the idea of a knife near those balls of yours..."

"Chicken."

"Yup."

He licks his fingers delicately, in a cat-like manner, and increases the feline resemblance by then nuzzling under my ear. "Is there something you want, Methos?" I asked.

"Mmmm," he says, not ceasing his movements.

"Care to share?"

"No. All mine," he murmurs, deliberately misunderstanding. His hand creeps down to my lap. "Missed me, huh?"

"You think this is yours too? Possessive baggage, aren't you."

"Part of my charm," he says before licking his way up my neck and into my hair, while his hand wraps carefully around my cock.

"Want to go to bed?"

"No. Right here."

"So I'm the mattress."

"No," he almost purrs. "You're my prey." He strokes my cock gently, which teases unbearably, but my protest is swallowed by his kiss, and the tongue he thrusts into my mouth. I suck on it a little. He kneads my scalp with one hand and rolls my balls very carefully -- he's the only lover I've ever had who I let do this, because the sensations are painful unless done with the exquisite care he now applies.

"So... I'm prey ... how do you plan to kill me?" I pant out.

"Very, very slowly, Duncan," he whispers. "Might take the rest of my life."

"I think I'm man enough to take it ... aaah ...." He's slithered off my lap and is kneeling in front of me. My gasp was as he licked the top of my cock and then applied his teeth gently. I trust him not to bite but I still shiver.

"Chicken," he murmurs, making fun of my reaction. I grab his head and pull him up to kiss.

"You'll pay for that."

"Oh, beat me, beat me!" he begs, laughing under my mouth.

"Been there, done that," I joke.

He grins. "Almost forgot. Now, do you want to talk or fuck?" I push his head back down to my cock and he chuckles. "Okay, I think I get it."

" _Shut_  up, Methos."

He grins at me again and then bends down, nuzzling in my pubic hair and inhaling before turning to my cock, deep throating me in one movement. I arch back in the armchair. He grabs my hips and urges me further forward to the edge of the seat. I hold his shoulders, digging my fingers into his muscles. He is relentless with his mouth, but a sly finger tickles my hole. I fumble in the drawers beside the armchair, finding one of the thoughtfully provided tubes of lubricant and shoving it at him. He looks up at me over my cock and grins at my impatience, but takes the tube off me. He flips it open and lubes his finger before pushing it in me. I hiss in pleasure -- the man has good aim, always did.

The only thing wrong with this position is that I can't reach his cock or his arse. I guess I'll just have to lie here and take it like a man, stroking his back.

As if reading my mind, he looks up again and smiles around my cock. I wrap my legs around his back and pull him close. He does the impossible and takes me deeper -- I swear I'm fucking his lungs, and I don't know how he's breathing. His finger moves in and out of me, until I'm squirming, trying to hold back my orgasm and failing. He swallows around me, his throat massaging the head of my cock as his finger rubs the magical place within me. He looks at me smugly, knowing he has reduced me to jelly, and leans up for a kiss. I clasp the back of his head and pull his face to mine, capturing his lips.

"I love you, Methos," I say fiercely.

"Then let me have you," he says, already using his arms to lift up my legs. I pull them up to my chest, and he pushes his cock against me, forcing a slow entrance into me. I grunt -- it's not entirely without pain, but my hunger for him overcomes any discomfort, and I pull him in closer.

His face is close enough to kiss and my tongue thrusts in rhythm with his cock, but he refuses to let me force the pace. He suddenly slows down, going still. "Please," I beg.

"No. Wait." My legs are quivering from strain. He moves minutely. I clench my muscles around his cock. He just smiles -- he won't be hurried.

"Methos..."

"Shhh." He thrusts a little, his cock hitting the sweet spot. He bites my chin gently, thrusts again.

"Please?"

"Do you know what the sound of you begging does to me?" he says huskily.

"I need you, Methos." I reach for his hips and he shows mercy on me, beginning to move, only slowly going deeper.

His fingers dig into my shoulders as he comes, arching back, exhaling my name. I swallow that sigh and hold him close to me. "Mine," he whispers.

"Yours, always."

I hold him for several minutes, uncomfortable as the position is, but finally he sighs again and eases up from me. I trace the sweat on his face. "Bath?" I ask.

"Shower. I want to go home, Duncan." He kisses me. "Thank you, my love." It's not only for the sex.

I kiss his hand. "Come on," he says. Now it is he who leads me, it is he who insists on washing me down, although by the time we finish playing with the sponges and soap who is washing whom is a little unclear.

Finally, clean and feeling relaxed and happy, we dress in our laundered clothes and walk out to where my car is parked in front. Once home, I will send the monastery a generous cheque towards its upkeep -- Eric wants nothing, but I want the sanctuary he uses and from which we benefit to continue. All he needs from us is our presence -- oh, and for his lover to discreetly observe, which is no difficulty for us.

It's actually mid morning -- we have been gone for three days, less than I thought we might need. Methos is alert, and smiles to himself as I drive us back, his hand on my thigh. I still don't know what set him off. Perhaps he doesn't know for sure himself.

He makes a comment in the middle of a long silence. "Let's visit Joe next weekend."

I have no way of knowing whether there is a link between his crisis and the retired Watcher who is our closest friend, or it's just a random thought. It's one I'm happy to agree with. But something is bothering me.

"Methos -- if Eric ... you know ... if he wasn't ..." I don't finish. I don't think Eric is at much risk from the Game, but one day ...

"We'll manage, Duncan. I'll find another way."

"Glad you don't have to?"

"Utterly. Now don't get worked up, MacLeod. I'm enjoying being mellow and your driving gets erratic."

"I'm a good driver," I said indignantly.

"Sure, you are, Highlander ...." He teases me, and we bicker amiably all the way home. It's good to have him back.


End file.
